


Pieces

by revolutionsoftheheart



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 01:19:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3791263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/revolutionsoftheheart/pseuds/revolutionsoftheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Smash the Mirror (408) to New York City from Robin's POV. His thoughts as he navigates his honour and his feelings for Regina.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> For wickedshenanigans and her wonderful patience. I know this is long overdue (or at least the second half is). I hope you'll like it all the same.

_{ I've come undone_  
_But you make sense of who I am  
_ _Like puzzle pieces in your mind }_

.

.

.

He expects to wake up in a tangle of limbs, Regina pressed to his front, his nose in her hair — it's how he remembers falling asleep — but his side is empty when his eyes open, and for a moment, he's convinced it was a dream. Her kisses, her arms around him, the warmth of her body, his name on her lips; it was all just a dream. A very good dream.

One that didn't wake him, for once.

He can hear the birds sing faintly in the distance, and the fact that he's slept through the night is a welcome surprise in the midst of how complicated his life has become. (He hasn't been sleeping well lately, not with the weight of his choice dragging him down, not with the sadness he knows he's caused to the woman he loves, not with the way his heart aches for her – a woman that isn't his wife. And he's tried and tried to forget about her, like she asked, but he can't. And so, he can't sleep.) Robin closes his eyes, tries to remember how she looked in his dream, where the reality of their predicament didn't exist, where he was free of cherishing her like he wanted to – wants to – every day. (It isn't the first time he's dreamt about her, and each time he feels a bit guiltier.

It doesn't happen every night, but often enough to keep the memory of  _them_  alive in his mind: the way her eyes shine when she can't quite believe his words, but tries to nonetheless; the softness of her tresses as he weaves his fingers through them; the strength with which she fights the darkness of her past, her resilience; the tender passion of their stolen kisses, moments where only the two of them seem to exist; the way her smile lights up any room she enters.

Especially that smile. He loves that smile.)

As Robin rolls over in bed, his eyes snap open. The sigh that greets him is not at all what he expected.

The bed is larger, he realizes now, and more comfortable, nothing like the small cot he sleeps on in his tent. The comforter is plush; the sheets are made of rich, luxurious cotton. It's not the blanket he usually throws over at night in an attempt to stave off the cold. (It's enough for him, he thinks every time the thought of moving to town crosses to his mind. Besides, the only home he would even want in Storybrooke isn't his to have. Not anymore.)

His breathing quickens as he looks around, takes in more of his surroundings.

This isn't his camp. (Which means his so-thought dream isn't one.)

It's real. He's here.

And more importantly,  _she_ 's here – was here, at least – even she isn't currently by his side.

He breathes a sigh of relief. Regina must have gotten up before him. How long has he been asleep? Why did she feel the need to leave the comfort of the bed? She can't be far; he can't have slept that long. He usually wakes up with the sun. (There is no sun in her vault.)

It's that newfound knowledge of a dreamless night (better than a dream) that propels him out of bed, scrambling for his pants, thrown across the room during last night's very real activities.

He's still beaming when he finds her, offers her breakfast because he doesn't want this to end, wants to spend the rest of this day – of his life – by her side.

And she  _smiles_.

.

.

.

When Regina leaves the bed before him this time, he's fully alert of the speed with which she shoves her phone in the pocket of her jacket and of the curses slipping between her teeth about Henry and Emma and  _why didn't she pick up earlier._

Robin is by her side in two strides, pulling her to him before she has a chance to go up the stairs, wrapping an arm around her waist, his mouth finding hers one last time (the moment she goes outside, the illusion shatters. And this is good, it's theirs, and he's not ready to let go. Not quite yet. Perhaps that makes him selfish, but he doesn't care). The kiss is slow and languid, tongues tangling together lazily in the aftermath of their earlier passion.

She presses close, palms splaying on his bare chest, warm against his beating heart. He doesn't want to leave either, he guesses, but he knows she has to. They both do.

Foreheads still touching as they emerge from the kiss, she cradles his face, opens her mouth, but he speaks before she can, "They're waiting for you." Her eyes peek up at his, her soul bare and beautiful. (She's adjusted her make up slightly, but she's still unguarded — she always is for him.) Robin smiles. "Go."

He knows this isn't the end, and she seems to know it too, but it's also an ending of sorts. When they step outside, they have to face the harsh reality of his frozen wife and the Snow Queen and another normal day in Storybrooke. Regina's waiting and waiting and grasping at straws and expects her world to crumble down any second, and he won't let it. He keeps keep the stroke of his thumb on her cheeks, looks kindly at her until the corners of her mouth turn her frown into a smile.

Robin knows he's succeeded then, and he kisses that smile, making it grow (the knowledge that he's the only one to elicit that smile fills him with pride). He lets her leave reluctantly, one last press of his lips on hers for the road, and off she goes, back to the world that wants them apart.

He goes back inside to retrieve his shirt, catches a glance of the storybook that supposedly controls her destiny, and glares at it.

No author will decide her fate. He won't let it.

He'll fight for her.

He'll fight for that smile.

Because he loves that smile.

He loves  _her_ , too. He knows that now. And it saddens him that it's taken his wife coming back from the dead for him to realise just how much so, but he also knows Regina's not ready to hear it yet.

So he'll wait.

Because if anyone is worth a second chance, worth waiting for, days or weeks or months, it's Regina.

(He'll have to wait even longer than he thinks.)

.

.

.

_{ If all that we are is two matching scars_  
_Lines in a movie_  
_The same favorite song we both sing along  
_ _Then I don't wanna be in love }_

.

.

.

Robin steals the book and fights for her,  _with her_ , despite her assurances that he couldn't help. He wants to, and he will if he has anything to say about it.

Finding the alternate page comes as a blessing, a symbol of hope, and the look in her eyes as they glisten with unshed tears makes his heart swell with love anew. It's as if a switch has been flicked; allowing hope to seep back into her chest, and the sight of it is enough to make him breathless.

They kiss well into the night. Not all of it, not like before. She doesn't want it to happen again, and he'll respect her wishes (but he also promises himself to make things clear with Marian once she awakens because he can't keep these chaste kisses forever). When fireworks start up high in the sky, Robin gathers Regina in his arms (they're on her porch; he's walked her home) and places his forehead against hers.

They sway in silence, the moon and stars the only witnesses to their hearts and souls intertwining once again. (Robin doesn't believe they ever truly separated.)

.

.

.

The prospect of leaving her side isn't one Robin wants to contemplate. (He feels guilty; he's barely seen Roland today, but he doesn't want to leave Regina, not when he's just found her again, not when he knows Henry will be sleeping at the Charmings' tonight.) "Roland will already be asleep," he mutters in her hair, still searching for a reason to stay, trying to convince himself that he isn't being selfish. (He is.)

"Robin," she falters, pulling back to look at him, "we can't—"

"I know," he agrees, shakes his head because she's misunderstood his intentions. He brings his hand to rest against her cheek (the motion is already familiar again), and admits, "I don't want to leave you," scrunches his nose, feeling a small lick of shame (he's an adult; he should be able to let her go for one night). "We don't have to do anything, just—" he pauses, wonders what she's thinking. She's staring at him blankly, eyes round and big, waiting for the blow. He sighs. "Let me hold you tonight."

It takes a moment but she finally nods, and leads him inside.

.

.

.

A shrill ringing wakes them up in the morning. (It's quite an unpleasant sound, he'll have to talk to Regina about that. This world is still so strange to him.)

He grunts as she reaches for the phone on the nightstand. He can't make every word she says, still stuck in a haze somewhere between dream and reality, but he sees her eyebrows knit together and worry draw lines on her face as she's speaking to the person on the other end of the line. "I'll be right there."  _That_ , he understands clearly.

"Regina?" he inquires as she hangs up and turns to him.

"The Snow Queen," she explains, voice unsteady (one look at her is enough to feel her sudden fear, the one she was keeping from whomever had called her), "she's— she cast her spell." His hand finds a place at her hip, thumb rubbing there in slow circles and it seems to calm her down. She breathes and continues, "It's called the Shattered Sight. It's going to make everyone in town turn against each other by unleashing our—" she looks down, catches herself, "our darkest side."

His arms wrap around her, pulls her closer, as he reassures, "You're not that person anymore Regina."

Her palms push his chest to create some distance between them as she searches for his eyes. "Maybe not," she concedes, "but the spell—"

"Is a  _spell_ ," he finishes for her, then adds, "It's not you," but she's already shaking her head, denying his words,  _it is_ , and the only thing he can do is hold her closer, for however long she lets him. (Not very long. She has to meet the Charmings and Elsa at the clock tower soon.)

He wants to whisper in her ear, tell her it's going to be alright, but he knows she doesn't need, nor wants empty words from him. So he doesn't say anything, only wraps her lithe frame in his arms and hold her against his chest, her beating heart (beautiful, fragile, resilient; the one he's held in his hands) next to his.

.

.

.

"I have to go."

She's standing in the foyer, putting on her shoes and grabbing her coat. She'd gotten ready while he made her something to eat, the urgency of the situation stopping them from enjoying the domesticity of the morning.

Robin is still in his undershirt, standing a few feet away. He'll leave not too long after her. She's asked him to go back to his camp, to Roland, told him she couldn't have him around if she wanted to stay focused on the danger looming over town. He understands, but that doesn't mean he has to like it.

There's another apology at the seam her lips, for how she's leaving in a hurry, for how she's basically throwing him out and keeping him at arms' length, but he waves his hand in the air before she has a chance to voice it out loud, tells her to go, and the small smile he gets in response isn't easy, but it's a smile nonetheless.

"Regina," he calls as she's about to exit, and she turns around, stops to look at him.  _I love you_ , he wants to say, but the words get caught in his throat.

She's nodding however, and it's enough for him to know she's thinking the same thing.

For now, it has to be enough.

He sighs, tips his head down and back up in response, and she's out the door, running.

There will be another day, he tells himself.

He'll say it to her then. When the Snow Queen has been taken care of, and their lives are a little less of a mess, he'll tell her exactly how he feels about her.

(He doesn't yet know this day is far, far away.)

.

.

.

_{ Now that we see the signs_  
_Can we walk this line together?_  
_Now that we know it's time  
_ _Can we walk this line together? }_

.

.

.

When he returns to his camp, Roland is already up. His son runs to him the moment he's in sight and lets out a loud, "Papa!" making Robin's heart soar just as much now as when his boy uttered that word for the first time.

He sweeps the boy up in his arms, earning him a fit of soul-blessing giggles; Robin's own smile widening at the sound. Everything that's complicated in their lives (his own mess; his own fault) hasn't reached his son, nor dampened his spirits, and once again Robin is glad Roland is too young to fully comprehend what's happening to them.

His men do, however, and as Roland chats away about what he's done while his father was away, Robin is on the receiving end of their knowing glares, making him feel very small.

He knows he's being unfair to Marian, but she's frozen. He'll settle everything between them the moment she wakes up; he just can't deny Regina the happiness she long deserves. He can't stay away from her. He's tried and failed. The pull between them is too strong for him to rest, and quite frankly, he doesn't want to. If it earns him a few sideways stares, then so be it. His men will learn to accept it, just like they had during the missing year. It'd taken them a while to accommodate to Regina's presence then, but they had. And they would again.

And in a few years, they'll all be laughing about it around a fire. He'll have Regina by his side and Marian as a mother to Roland. Everything would work out just fine. Given time.

It's all he can hope for.

.

.

.

He sees Regina again that day.

She's with Henry when she visits the camp, and trying so, so hard to hide her inner turmoil, but she's an open book for him, and whatever curse is coming their way has her terrified and anxious, more so than she was this morning. He wishes there was something he could do to lift the weight of her worries from her shoulders, to carry the burden of her past, but she wouldn't be the Regina he fell for without it. In a way (and he feels guilty the moment the thought crosses his mind), he guesses he's grateful for everything that's made her the woman – the exquisite woman – she is today, even if he'd prefer to see a smile where sadness creases her features.

She helps him get his camp ready while he gives specific instructions to his men about hiding weapons and making sure everybody stays safe. He wants to see all of them again on the other side of this curse cloud, and he won't have anyone missing or hurt when they do.

When Regina takes Henry with her to protect him, he follows despite her protests.

He doesn't let go of her until she makes him, until she's shaking with fear and running away from the Mayor's office, scared like he's never seen her, horrified by the prospect of what she'll become.

She's gone before he can reassure her that time, before he can remind her she's not that person anymore, before he can tell her he loves her. (It probably wouldn't have been the best timing for such words, so maybe it's best he hasn't said them.) He's powerless in front of her fears. No matter what he says or do, they always come back, and Robin vows to himself he'll keep on fighting them, fighting  _for her_ , because she's worth it. She's worth every dent he's made in his code of honour this past 24 hours, and he'll have her know it when they survive this new obstacle life has thrown their way.

He goes back to the woods and secures himself against a tree, out of sight of his men, as all of them are, away from anyone they could be tempted to hurt. (He was tempted to go near Regina's vault, but his head has to win over his heart one last time, as he knows she wants him as far away from her as possible, and he'll respect her wishes.)

The chains are heavy against his wrist, and his last thought as shards of glass start to rain on him is for her. A wish for her to be unharmed when they meet again. A wish for her to know how much she means to him.

**.**

**.**

**.**

_{ At the curtain's call_  
_It's the last of all_  
_When the lights fade out  
_ _All the sinners crawl }_

.

.

.

She'd killed Marian.

She'd looked him in the eyes and told him about Daniel and how  _she never thought she'd have this,_  and he'd opened up about Marian's death, and she'd been the one to kill her. She'd been the one to separate Roland from his mother. She'd captured Marian and held her in a cell, and if it hadn't been for Emma intervention, he might have never seen Marian again.

He had his wife's killer in front of him all this time, and he hadn't done anything about it.

("Are you two together?")

Robin's disgusted with himself.

How? How could he let himself be used like this? How could he fall for the charms of such a vile creature, who terrorized kingdoms and slaughtered entire villages in her quest for revenge?

("She's a monster.")

Robin pulls on the chains, pulls hard, but whoever has restrained him (probably one of his men, he can't see who else) has been thorough and he can't break free. He can only severely chaff his skin where it's scratching against the metal, a drop of blood running down his hand after several vain attempts at breaking free.

He lets out loud, rage-filled, guttural cry.

("She wanted me dead, Robin!" his wife whispers with rage instead of yelling because Roland is already shaking and sniffling in her arms. Even if she's pissed at him, Marian doesn't want to make it worse on the boy. "She had me locked up in a cell for  _days_ ," she hisses as she makes her way through the forest, following the direction Robin gave her earlier.

All he has left to do is to follow her as she heads for their camp, her return met with shocked silence. Any sort of welcome back remark his men want to say die on their lips as they catch a whiff of Marian's mood and sense the tension emanating from the couple.

Robin is glad none of them choses to interrupt, letting catch up to his newly alive wife. "Marian, please. Let me explain."

"I thought what I saw was pretty clear," she states as she enters his tent with Roland, her word final and not open to discussion.

Robin lets her have her time with their son, decides he's better waiting outside. His men have gone back to their occupation, pretending not to listen to their quarrel, but Robin knows their ears are alert and listening, and they can all guess what this is about.

He sighs, drops down on a fallen log next to fire his men had lit up while he was at the diner (while he was at the diner with Regina, his heart corrects).

When Marian finally emerges several minutes later, she's calmed down and tells him Roland's asleep.

"Can we talk?" he tries, and she finally relents, sitting down next to him. He tells then. He tells her about the stubborn grieving Queen he met a year ago and her lost son and the woman he discovered when they travelled to with no memories Storybrooke. He tells her about the lion tattoo, about destiny, tells her it doesn't change anything, not really, certainly doesn't change the way he feels, but he thinks his Marian has to know all the information. He owes her that.

He finishes his tale with, "Take as much time as you need. Just… please don't shut me out."

And Marian, his Marian, she's a good person. So she takes his hand, assures him, "I won't," and together they join the rest of the Merry Men as they're finally allowed to embrace their returned friend. It's a joyous reunion, and Robin feels guilty at his lack of enthusiasm.

But the only think he sees is the haunted look on Regina's face as she walked away from Granny's, away from him.)

Robin sees red; he wants red.

He wants the Queen's blood pooling under her lifeless body. He wants her to pay for all the lives she's taken, for every person who's suffered because of her.

Who would be so foolish as to offer her redemption? An evil being like her doesn't deserve a second chance. Some people are too far-gone to ever come back from the darkness, and she's one of them. She's truly one of them.

_A snowflake lands next to him._

Then one becomes two, and three, and more and more, and a gentle snowfall starts around him, covering the ground in a soft white duvet. It chases away the shadows and illuminates the sky, and Robin's vision clears, the sudden rage he'd felt evaporating, like magic. Confusion settles in, his brain in a fog as he tries to navigate his sudden change in feelings.

Tears rush to his eyes as he remembers; as every memory of the last year blends with the thoughts he just had.

He hates himself.

He closes his eyes and bites back the tears, too late, and digs his teeth in his bottom lip, inflicting physical pain, in the hope it'll swallow that of his aching heart. He has reasons to hate her, valid ones, and that's what scares him the most. He always thought he was better, better than everyone else in this town, prided himself in the fact that he was different from those who were so quick to want Regina's head on a spike. But it turns out he's just like them, if not worse.

He sags against the tree, and thanks the Gods the chains held him.

.

.

.

As soon as he's certain Roland's safe, he dashes through the woods, back to town. She'll have left her vault by now, and he needs to make sure she's fine, that whatever this curse has done to her hasn't harmed her.

They meet at the entrance to the woods, both stopping in their tracks at the sight of the other.

It takes all of two seconds for Robin to cross the remaining distance, to frame her jaw with his hands and pull her to him, happy, delighted, relieved, pouring every single emotion he hasn't felt while cursed into his kiss, in the hard, rough press of his lips to hers. She kisses him back, as good as she gets, tongues meeting and dancing, hands grasping at clothes and skin and hair.

They break apart when the need for oxygen is more vital than their need for each other, both panting, clutching at each other, unable to let go.

Regina breathes, "Ingrid's magic," suddenly nervous, "it's undone." She's fighting to hold her head high, to not let her face fall, but he knows her, wonders why she doesn't have that sparkle in her eyes he loves so much, when she adds, "All of it," and it dawns on him.

_Marian._

Catching his understanding in his yes, she drops her hands to her side and declares, "I'll meet you in my vault," already stepping away, ready to run.

"Wait." He reaches for her hand, as he's done before. What seems like an eternity ago now.

She's rock-solid when she faces him, tensed, and he realizes she's waiting for the blow. Hardening herself, waiting her happiness to crumble in front of her again, and Robin finds he can't promise her anything, not until he speaks with Marian. He wants to, desperately. He wants her to know how feels, that this doesn't change anything between them, that he doesn't regret anything that's happened in the last two days, but he can't voice it. He has to play fair; he owes Marian this minimum of righteousness.

And Regina knows it to. It's why she's looking at him the way she is.

"I'll see you in an hour," she says and turns to leave, unknowingly taking his heart with her. (It's always been with her.)

.

.

.

_{ This is the way that we love,_  
_Like it's forever_  
_Then live the rest of our life,  
_ _But not together }_

.

.

.

He barely listened as she told him what to do once he went through the town line. He didn't want to do it; he couldn't. (He had to; he did.)

He wanted to yell, to scream at the injustice of it all, of this  _author_  who kept Regina from believing in happy endings, that prevented her from smiling when life went her way because she always expected the worse.

He understands now. He understands how she feels, fully; knows what it's like to have no hope.

Because he currently has none. The worse happened.

The silence (the words, unsaid) haunts him.

("I…"  _I love you._

"I know."  _I love you too._ )

It's the very reason why they knew this was the only course of action. Their family before them, that was the only thing they'd agreed on during that year she hated him. He couldn't be selfish (oh how he wanted to be), especially not when she was the strong one. When she was the only one who had a right to be selfish.

He has Marian again, and his son. He should be happy.

"We'll be fine Robin, you'll see," are Marian encouraging words, followed by a smile, and he tries to give her one in return. His attempt is half-hearted, almost literally, for he feels as if he's left half of his soul at the town line. (He has.) And it's crazy. He's lived without Regina for most of his life, he shouldn't need to be with her always, but he does. A part of him died as Regina's hand slipped from his, and there's no getting it back, not until he can burry his fingers in her silky locks again, or breathe her sent, or taste her on his lips.

Marian doesn't say anything else as they walk down the empty road, simply wraps her arm tighter around his back as he buries his face in her hair. (The wrong hair, his heart says, twisting the knife deeper, guilt gnawing at him. Will these thoughts ever stop?)

Robin thanks whatever Gods have put Marian in his path, how she's holding him up, even after he let her down.

He doesn't deserve her (probably didn't deserve Regina either).

.

.

.

Three days.

That's all he had with her.

Three days of bliss and love and hope. Of believing that they could face everything, if only they did so together.

In many ways, Robin hasn't left Storybrooke. His heart is still at the town line, with her, his soul incomplete without her presence by his side. His body is in New York, but his mind is with her, always.

He guesses Marian knows, despite his words of reassurances to her that he's moving on, that he doesn't think about Regina anymore. (He thinks about her all the time when Marian looks away. When he's alone with himself and his thoughts and his hand, Regina is all he can think about.)

Robin used to have hope, hope to spare, and he promised himself to believe when Regina didn't. But the day they were forced apart, the day he was sent to a strange town with headache-inducing noises twenty-four hours a day, he stopped believing.

She's the strong one – has always been the strong one. There are days all he wants to do is run back to her, to hold her in his arms and never let go. (It's wrong, he knows it is, especially when he's saying the exact opposite to Marian, but he can't help the way he feels. The life he's living now, it's a lie. He's honouring Marian, the one who once scarified everything for him, but there's no honour to hold where his heart is concerned.)

He slips out of bed that night and heads to the living room, stopping to readjust Roland's blanket under his chin, picking up the stuffed monkey from where it lies on the ground and setting it at the other end of the couch. (It's the wrong monkey. This one is brown, but when Roland asked for it at the zoo, Robin hadn't been able to deny him. Yet one more reminder of how different things were. Robin thought it would help, but it hadn't.) He pours himself a glass of water and sits next to the window, gazing at the sky, starless in those blinding city lights, but Robin knows they're there. The stars are the one thing that doesn't change between Storybrooke and New York, and wherever Regina is, she'll be looking up at those stars too.

The stars that once allowed her to find him, guided by a trail of pixie dust.

No matter how wrong it is, a part of him (a part that's dead when the sun burns high in the sky) holds on to the hope that she'll one day find him again.

.

.

.

_{ But maybe all that were meant to be  
_ _Is beautifully unfinished }_


End file.
